


The Sweater Curse

by politeanarchy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, It's a Trap!, Knitting, M/M, Sweaters, boyfriend sweater curse, inconvenient side effects, unintentionally cursed objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politeanarchy/pseuds/politeanarchy
Summary: Aziraphale knits Crowley a sweater. Crowley really likes it. It's perfect! Then things get weird.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 168





	The Sweater Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Directly inspired by [a Tumblr post](https://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/614293875715178496/aziraphales-heartfelt-gift-ended-up-backfiring).
> 
> Should this be "jumper" instead? I am a vulgar American, and have probably gotten it wrong.

It turned out they had plenty of free time, after all the dust had settled. They spent quite a lot of it in restaurants, of course, and dedicated many pleasant hours to museums, galleries and theaters. In between, they took up some more domestic pursuits.

Crowley had discovered he quite liked baking. Partly it was because he could shout intimidatingly at the ingredients as he mixed them, partly because it allowed him to indulge Aziraphale's enjoyment of desserts, and partly because he could saunter into random office buildings and leave platefuls of sinfully tempting devil's food cupcakes in anonymous break rooms. It encouraged gluttony, and had been known to induce friendship-destroying arguments over free-trade cocoa, or the evils of gluten.

Late at night, when human venues were mostly closed, Crowley slept. Aziraphale read. One night, he happened to pick up a late-Victorian magazine, and discovered that it contained instructions for a cozy knitted nightcap. He looked over at Crowley, sprawled across the black bedsheets, and smiled fondly. Then he snapped his fingers (quietly) and materialized a pair of wooden knitting needles and a ball of wool.

Crowley hooted with laughter when he eventually saw the finished nightcap, which Aziraphale supposed was probably fair. It was a bit lumpy and irregular, and knitted from off-white undyed wool, which was too angelic a color for any self-respecting demon. But Aziraphale had been reading more books of knitting instruction, and they all recommended light colors for beginners, to make it easier to see what the stitches were doing.

So he tucked the cap away in a drawer, thinking perhaps he'd wear it himself someday, if he ever decided to try this sleeping business. He was getting the hang of knitting, though, and thought he might be able to manage something with darker yarn.

By late fall, he had a plan. He'd been making small things for practice: hats, mittens, little swatches of various techniques. He had a suitable quantity of wickedly soft cashmere yarn, in the deepest possible shade of stygian black. He had, also, a six thousand year backlog of frustrated devotion and the untiring patience of an angel. This was not going to be the misshapen, ill-fitting work of a beginner.

It was going to be _perfect._

* * *

Aziraphale held unusually still as Crowley tore open the wrapping paper. He was braced for some kind of cynical remark about ridiculous human hobbies, or Aziraphale's fashion sense. He was not expecting Crowley to catch his breath and make a small, strangled sound that was all consonants. He was not expecting Crowley to _blink._

Crowley did these things, then regained control of himself enough to unfold the sweater and hold it up. It was knit in cables, snaking and twining in complex patterns. It was soft, and sleek, and it smelled like old books and cocoa and ethereal grace. There was a subtle dark red stripe around the inside of the collar.

 _Get hold of yourself!_ said Crowley's inner voice. _You're a demon, you're not supposed to dissolve into a soppy mess just because..._

"Angel. You _made_ this? For _me?"_

Aziraphale nodded, all hopeful big eyes.

Crowley was struggling, overwhelmed. "I didn't give you anything nearly this good."

"Of course you did, my dear!" Aziraphale gestured with his glass at the bottle on the table, which Crowley had insisted that he unwrap earlier, and which they'd already consumed a fair amount of. " _And_ the bûche de Noël, which was _marvelous._ Those little meringue mushrooms!"

Crowley regarded the sweater, awed. "It's...it's amazing. It's _perfect."_

Aziraphale beamed happily. "Well, go on then, try it on."

So Crowley did, tossing aside his waistcoat and wriggling the sweater over his head.

"Ohh. _Ohhhhhhhhhhh,"_ he said, sounding remarkably like Aziraphale had when he was tasting the bûche de Noël.

It fit perfectly, and felt like being wrapped in a warm hug. Like basking on a sun-warmed stone. It was appallingly, terrifyingly comfortable. He hadn't felt this... _good_...since before he Fell.

Aziraphale slid closer, and wrapped his arms around Crowley, adding another layer of coziness to the general effect. Crowley wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"Happy Christmas, Crowley," said the angel.

"Bona Saturnalia," answered Crowley, snapping his fingers and indicating that Aziraphale should look up. A sprig of mistletoe had appeared above them, tied with a festive red bow. They leaned into each other and kissed, softly. And then again, with more heated enthusiasm.

Things proceeded in a direction that had by now become happily familiar, and some while later they found themselves in the bedroom.

"May I— _mmmmm_ —help you take this off, my dear?"

" _Aaahhh,_ actually, I'd kind of like to, er, keep it on— _ah!_ —if you don't mind."

"Oh! Oh my." Aziraphale giggled, delightedly. "Well, that will be a bit of a change from our, um, _usual routine."_

"Are you— _hsss_ —saying this is _routine?"_

"You know that's not what I meant. _Oh!_ Yes, like that, please."

Altogether it was a most satisfactory holiday.

* * *

Boxing Day dawned sparkling and cold. Crowley rose late, and found that Aziraphale had made coffee already. He slurped it gratefully, and thought about taking a shower. A hot decadent shower on a frosty morning was one of his favorite indulgences. But today he felt a certain reluctance. Taking a shower would mean he'd have to take off the sweater. He could, of course. But somehow, he didn't want to.

He snapped himself into freshly miracled clothes instead, leaving the sweater in place. Then he went in search of his angel, who was no doubt absorbed in some book or other.

* * *

It was not until some weeks later that Aziraphale started to realize that something odd was going on.

He had no room to criticize; he knew that perfectly well. After all, wasn't he the one who carefully and lovingly preserved his coats for a hundred and eighty years? And wore them all that time, too. But that was _him._ It wasn't like Crowley to do anything of the sort.

And yet. Here was Crowley, still wearing the sweater Aziraphale knit for him. Every day for the past month. Nights, as well, at least as far as Aziraphale knew. He seemed unwilling to take it off at all.

True, it did look wonderful on him. And Aziraphale knew that Crowley did sometimes get fond of a particular garment, and keep it for years and years, until it came back into style. He just didn't usually wear it continuously until it did. Normally he changed his wardrobe so fast it made Aziraphale dizzy.

It was flattering, Aziraphale thought, that Crowley liked the sweater so much. Nevertheless, it was... _odd._

* * *

Crowley, meanwhile, was also feeling slightly off, but was unable to put his finger on exactly why. Mostly, he didn't think about it much, because in general he was feeling wonderful. In fact, he was floating through the world in a soft-focus haze, with everything fuzzy around the edges. The world hadn't ended, he and his angel had an infinite future together, they were spending this afternoon in his flat, and it was all just so _nice._

He squinted into the oven, checking on the progress of his apple tarts. The timer went _ding,_ and Crowley was pulling out pans and arranging them on the counter to cool when Aziraphale came in.

"Those smell absolutely scrumptious."

"Hey, thanks. They're all yours, you know."

"You mean you aren't going to smuggle them into some conference room to tempt people into breaking their New Year's resolutions?"

"Nah."

"I thought that was your favorite thing to do, this time of year."

Crowley shrugged. "Hardly seems worth the trouble, somehow."

Aziraphale picked up one of the tarts, which obligingly cooled to an ideal temperature for biting into. He bit into it. It was fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg; the crust was lush and buttery and perfectly crisp. Something about it was subtly different than he'd been expecting, though. "Mmmmmm," he said, because it _was_ delicious, and also because he wanted to buy some time while he thought about the slight anomalous twinge he was sensing.

"You've got some flour on your sweater, love." Aziraphale gestured at Crowley's sleeve while picking up another tart to nibble. "Would you like me to take it and give it a good shake over the balcony railing?"

Crowley flinched, startling them both. "No!" He blinked, and twitched slightly. "I mean, you don't need to...I can just..." He snapped, a dismissive gesture that failed to be nonchalant, and his sweater was instantly as pristine as it had been on Christmas.

The awkward moment passed. Crowley gave Aziraphale a one-armed squeeze and a kiss, then went back to cleaning up the kitchen. Aziraphale wandered off, with a half-eaten tart and an air of abstraction. He was in the next room, leafing idly through a book, when he realized what was missing from the tarts. A certain bite, the tantalizing trace of a bitter edge that set off the sweetness. In fact, they were noticeably lacking in any hint of forbidden knowledge.

Crowley seemed cheerful enough—he was whistling as he clattered around in the kitchen. But _something_ was not right.

* * *

For Valentine's Day, they had a reservation at the Ritz, and tickets to the opera afterward. Aziraphale was very much looking forward to it. The Bentley would arrive to pick him up soon, and the angel was spending the time until then wondering whether Crowley would be in a black tailcoat and bow tie to mirror Aziraphale's white one, or if he might decide on an evening gown this time. Perhaps one with shimmering sequins all over, like scales. There was a delicious sense of anticipation, not knowing which it would be, and he was enjoying all his imagined variations.

It was lovely, Aziraphale thought, that even after so many thousands of years, there were still small ways they could surprise each other. He fidgeted with the orchid that was going to be Crowley's Valentine gift. It was also meant to be a surprise. He hoped Crowley would like it.

The familiar growl of the Bentley's engine grew closer, then stopped. Aziraphale leapt up, fortunately avoiding any serious damage to the orchid and its pot. "Crowley!" he exclaimed joyfully, as the bookshop bell jingled.

Then his face fell. It _was_ a surprise, although possibly it shouldn't have been.

"What _can_ you be thinking, my dear?" He advanced fretfully toward his date, the orchid entirely forgotten. "It's time for us to go, and you're not even dressed yet!"

"'Course I'm dressed, you don't think I'm going to the opera naked?"

"I mean you're not _properly_ dressed." Crowley was, in fact, still wearing his Christmas sweater. "You can't go out tonight in that!"

"It's perfectly fine! Comfortable _and_ stylish."

"It's...it's...it's _casual!"_ It was the tone of voice Aziraphale generally used to describe a cheap mass-market edition with inferior illustrations. "Come on, I know you always enjoy manifesting some sort of outrageous _couture_ for these occasions. Get on with it!"

"Yeah, I..." Crowley made a feeble gesture, quite unlike his usual exaggerated snap. He looked lost, bewildered. "It's funny. I guess I'm not in the mood."

 _"Not in the mood!"_ howled Aziraphale. "Crowley, what on Earth has gotten into you?"

Crowley shrugged, and looked vacant. "Dunno. I think I just really like this sweater."

"I think I'd better take that sweater and have a look at it. I'm starting to wonder if I've inadvertently knitted the cables into some sort of cursed sigil."

"What do you mean, take it?"

"I mean, you need to take it off, so I can examine it. And also so you can get dressed to go to the opera. If either of us even still wants to."

Crowley made no move to divest himself of the offending garment. Aziraphale was, by now, growing exceedingly tetchy.

"What's the matter, have you got stuck in it somehow?"

"No! I can take it off any time I like. I just don't want to."

Aziraphale abandoned his attempts at persuasion, and reached for Crowley's sleeve. Crowley lunged away desperately, as though Aziraphale had threatened to smite him. Aziraphale dove after him with frantic haste, and soon they were struggling in earnest.

Sadly, their efforts bore hardly any resemblance to the kind of excitingly-charged grappling they had come to enjoy in the preceding few months. They wrestled and grunted in a fashion that would have made a deep and lasting impression on any number of Old Testament prophets, but which brought little satisfaction to the actual participants.

The angel was the stronger of the two, but being a part-time snake has its advantages, and eventually Crowley managed to slither out of Aziraphale's grasp and retreat to the front corner of the bookshop, looking like a frightened animal.

"Crowley! I want to find out what has happened to you. You're not acting at all like yourself. It's very upsetting!"

"I'm _fine!"_ Crowley insisted, sounding panicky and unconvinced. "Or would be, if you'd stop fussing at me."

"I'm not fussing, I'm worried!"

"Well, I don't like it! Maybe I should take myself away, so I won't upset your delicate sensibilities."

"Perhaps you should, then. In fact, I find that I have some important research to do." Aziraphale turned away coldly, and headed for the more distant regions of the shop. "I expect you can see youself out," he sniffed.

But the bell had already jingled, leaving nothing but the the dying echo of the slammed front door.

Aziraphale sniffed again, then made a determined effort to steady himself with several deep breaths. He made his way to the shelves where he kept the volumes concerning occult symbols and their meanings, lifted down a formidable crumbling tome, and began to read.

* * *

Crowley, meanwhile, was trying to work out what exactly had just happened, and failing entirely to make any sense of it. Aziraphale was upset with him, that much was clear. But somehow, he couldn't understand _why._ He didn't look right. Was that what it was? But Aziraphale _liked_ how he looked. Had done for centuries. So that wasn't it, was it?

Aziraphale was annoyed about him wearing the sweater. Which didn't make any sense—Aziraphale had made the sweater for him! And the thing was...the thing about the sweater was...there was nothing wrong with the sweater. _Nothing._ At all.

Crowley relaxed into the soothing perfection of the sweater wrapping around him, cocooning him in placid contentment without flaw. It felt good. It felt so nice. He could happily stay here forever. _Here_ being inside the perfect sweater, and _here_ also evidently being his flat, to which he had returned more or less automatically.

But even through the soft wooly haze surrounding him, he knew _something_ was very much not as it should be. He and Aziraphale shouldn't be fighting. Was it possible that he _was_ under some kind of curse? Could a sweater be cursed? Listlessly, he jiggled his phone in his hand. Then, without thinking much about what he was doing, he typed "sweater curse" into Google.

Gosh.

Not only could a sweater be cursed, there was a Wikipedia page about it. He clicked, and read, and tried not to panic.

_...if a knitter gives a hand-knit sweater to a significant other, it will lead to the recipient breaking up with the knitter._

* * *

Aziraphale sighed, and put another book on top of the teetering stack beside his desk. It was quite a tall stack, and none of it contained the information he was looking for.

Near the bottom of the pile were the standard works on demonology, dictionaries of sigils for summoning and binding, theoretical and practical exercises in curse-breaking, and an assortment of grimoires.

The middle strata were occupied by treatises on sacred geometry, a topological analysis of the knotwork in the Book of Kells, and some largely illegible notes scrawled on dry leaves by an obscure hermit.

Closer to the top, piled carelessly, were knitting references, stitch dictionaries, and dog-eared magazines from many eras, some of which were recent enough to seem jarringly out of place in the bookshop. 

His tea had gone cold. He sipped at it anyway, and tried to think of where else to look.

* * *

In a dim, angular, shadowy corner of his flat, Crowley huddled deeper into his sweater. He definitely couldn't take it off _now._ It was all he had left to remember Aziraphale by. Because they were broken up now, right? In fact, maybe Aziraphale had given him a cursed sweater as a subtle way of ending the relationship.

Why was it so hard to focus on anything? Ah well, it didn't matter. As long as he stayed wrapped up and warm, everything would be fine. Everything _was_ fine. Perfectly.

His phone rang.

* * *

"Crowley! Oh thank goodness. I'm afraid I lost track of time a bit, while I was researching, and I was worried that something had happened to you. Normally you come and interrupt me when it's been more than a few days."

"Aziraphale? Whhhhr?"

"Oh dear. _Has_ something happened to you?"

"No, I don't think so. Ahhhh, what day is it?"

"It's the twenty-ninth. I really am _so_ sorry to have left you hanging all this time."

"'Salright, I, uh. Didn't notice."

"You sound like you've been asleep. In fact, you sound like you might still be asleep. Look, can you come over to the bookshop? I think I've discovered a solution."

"The bookshop? I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."

"Oh no! No, no no no! Oh, Crowley, I want to see you very much." Aziraphale made a huffing noise of wistful irritation. "Should I come and collect you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Awake. I'll be there soon."

"In that case, I'll just get things ready," said Aziraphale, and rang off.

* * *

There was an array of mysterious tools laid out on Aziraphale's desk, like surgical instruments. They were mostly pointy. Crowley found them faintly intimidating, although his knowledge of what they were actually _for_ was minimal enough that he wasn't quite sure what exactly to worry about. They didn't look like the sort of things that would be used in any kind of exorcism or curse-breaking.

"Now, you sit here..." Aziraphale was fluttering around, adjusting the angle of the lamp. "Just let me have your arm, that's it." The angel put on his ridiculous tiny glasses as he sat down in his own chair, and took Crowley's hand. "We'll have you sorted out in a jiffy!"

Those familiar soft manicured hands hovered over the desk, and selected a long, thin metal spike. Crowley flinched, and didn't quite manage to suppress his instinctive hiss of fear at what it might be used for.

Aziraphale blinked, looked apologetic, and patted Crowley's hand reassuringly. "Relax, my dear," he said. "I'm not going to do anything to _you,_ just to your sweater."

At this, Crowley flinched again. "What are you—"

"Shhh. Nothing drastic, just a very minor _tweak."_ He smiled brightly. "And fortunately, I'm pretty sure I can manage it without taking the sweater off. You sit tight." A teasing smirk. "Feel free to close your eyes, if you can't bear to watch."

Crowley gave a snort of disgust at the suggestion. "Get on with it."

Aziraphale turned up the cuff of the sleeve, and peered at it. He poked at the stitches here and there with the business end of the metal spike (which was, in fact, a mostly harmless knitting needle).

"Aha!" He had found the tail end of the yarn, which was neatly woven in and hidden amongst the stitches. Carefully, he picked it loose and unraveled it until he was able to undo a couple of stitches of the bind-off, and put them onto another knitting needle. He took one stitch off the needle and let it drop down a few rows. Then he grabbed another unidentified instrument of torture from his desk (it was a crochet hook), and used it to twist one of the dropped stitches before picking up the column again.

As soon as the stitch was twisted, Crowley felt a kind of subtle popping sensation, as though he'd been looking out from the inside of a soap bubble, and it had burst. As though everything had been all covered in swirling, shimmering rainbows, and now they were gone. But he could breathe more easily, somehow.

"What in the world...?"

"Oh excellent, I do believe it worked!" Aziraphale beamed at him. "Let's test it out, shall we? Can you just take this off so I can finish tidying up the bind-off again?"

"'Course," said Crowley easily, and pulled the sweater over his head so he could hand it to Aziraphale.

Then the significance of it struck him. "I really hope you're going to explain to me what is going on with all this."

Aziraphale secured the final stitches, set the sweater down, and picked up a book with an unexpectedly bright cheery cover. It may well have been a first edition, but it was one published within the last couple of years, unlikely to ever qualify as any kind of collectible.

"That looks like a book of easy knitting projects for beginners," objected Crowley, as he snapped himself into his usual waistcoat and jacket.

"Well spotted," said Aziraphale. "But listen!" He opened to a page marked with a slip of paper, and read: "Don't worry if a few of your stitches don't look quite right. They'll even out with blocking. And according to legend, a perfect sweater with no mistakes may attract demons, who become trapped in the garment."

"What! Do you mean to tell me you can make a _working demon trap_ using pointy sticks and a bunch of string?"

"I'm afraid so, although I assure you I didn't do it on purpose." Aziraphale managed to sound simultaneously sheepish and proud. "I suspect it wouldn't be possible for a human to achieve the necessary lack of errors. But apparently an angel can."

"So now you've...fixed it?" Crowley ran his hands through his hair, rumpling it into a different (but still demonically stylish) configuration. "Or, um, un-fixed it?"

"I've introduced a small, deliberate flaw. It won't show enough to matter, but it seems to remove the unwanted side effects."

"Like never being able to take the blessed thing off."

"Yes. And I'm pretty sure it was doing something to dampen your usual powers."

Crowley leaped up in a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Oh! Could you knit a sweater for Hastur?"

"No."

"Come on, it would be brilliant! He'd be stuck in there for all eternity, and wouldn't be able to do anything about it." It was so obviously an excellent idea. Further refinements suggested themselves to Crowley immediately. "It could be _pink._ And fluffy!"

" _No!_ I'm not going to that kind of trouble for a Duke of Hell. Especially one I don't even know socially. And in any case, it wouldn't work."

"Why not? You've already proved you can knit the perfect demon trap. Surely it's a thwarting opportunity you can't pass up."

"I'm telling you, it wouldn't work." Aziraphale shook his head sadly. "Crowley, what did it feel like? When you put the sweater on."

"Well, it..." This was a difficult question, apparently. Crowley made a series of inarticulate noises, accompanied by equally incomprehensible gestures. Eventually he gave up and said, "It felt _good._ All...comfortable and warm, and reassuring. Like you were giving me a hug, all the time."

"You mean, like the opposite of _I don't like this, it feels spooky?"_

"Yeah! Ah." The implication settled gradually, like tea leaves in which Crowley could read his fortune. "Oh."

"I don't think anything I knit is going to have that effect on Hastur. Or anyone else but you, really."

"I'm glad of that. Now that I think about it." Crowley smiled, trying not to go all soft and wobbly. There was another important matter he needed to clear up. "Aziraphale. I was doing a bit of research myself, on the subject of sweater curses."

"Mm-hmm. Did you find the one about what a bad idea it is to knit a sweater for one's boyfriend?" Aziraphale was suddenly very much focused on weaving the tail end of yarn back into the cuff of the sleeve, and wouldn't catch Crowley's eye. "I'm pretty sure that only applies to humans."

"Well, yeah." Crowley nodded. "Sure." He nodded again, decisively, crumpled a bit, then pulled himself together. "But, um, just in case. That is, you might want to knit me another sweater sometime."

Something in his voice got the angel's attention then, and Aziraphale put down the sweater and turned to Crowley just in time to see him pull out a small velvet-covered box.

"Aziraphale, will you marry me?"

**Author's Note:**

> It was Midsummer's Day when Hastur discovered a number of foreign objects on his desk: an exotic orchid in a pot, a plate of assorted pastries, and a slightly lumpy knitted nightcap. Also a note, which read _a token of our thanks for your contributions to our happiness._
> 
> The nightcap was warm enough to mitigate the damp chill of his Hellish cubicle. The orchid attracted all manner of small insects, much to the delight of his frog. The pastries weren't even poisoned.
> 
> Because Hastur was constitutionally incapable of believing that anyone would do something nice for him without an ulterior motive, he spent the next thousand years warily eyeing shadows, trying to look behind himself at all times, and jumping at small noises. So that was all right, then.


End file.
